Old Man
by boredomsetsin13
Summary: Ace was once called "John," and he was once a kid. When he was a kid, he thought his father was the best guy he knew. One-Shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own the "Stand By Me" (The Body) characters; they belong to Stephen King. Nor do I own the lyrics in the summary.

"Hey, Johnnyboy, comere," I heard Dad say. It startled me. I'd rather keep looking out the window. There was a stray out there. I wanted to ask Dad if we could keep him. I'd take real good care of him. I've never had a dog before, not in my whole life. But I've always wanted one. "John! Get your ass over here!" It startled me again. I'd forgotten where I was supposed to be for a second.

I shuffled over to Dad. His eyes weren't focused on me; they were still looking at where I'd been standing before. He needed to shave. Dad was looking a little scruffy. I'd never tell him that, though. He might not like hearing that - not from me, not from Momma, either.

"What, Dad," I asked. I looked up at him. For a second, I vaguely wondered if I'd ever get a beard like Dad's got. I hope so. All men are supposed to have beards.

Dad looked fierce, like a dog, and his lip was twitching.

"Don't take no lip with me, boy! Don't you even think about it," he yelled. My shoulders slumped. So it was going to be one of those nights. I ducked my head. I didn't really want to look him in the eye. His face was scary, at the moment. His voice was, too.

"Sorry, Dad," I murmured. I was really hoping he heard me. I didn't exactly want to get belted across the mouth.

"How many fuckin' damn times do I have to tell ya', Johnboy? Be a man! Grow up! Don't ever apologize! Don't ever be sorry," Dad spit. How was I supposed to be a man at eight? But Dad's right. I shouldn't ever be sorry and I should never apologize. My dad's so smart. He really knows the score, he really does.

"Right, Dad," I told him. I looked up to look at his face, to show him I understood. I thought he'd be proud that I was paying attention. Maybe, he'd even think that I was being a good son. Maybe, he'd even think that I'd turn out to be a good man like him one day.

He smacked me right across the mouth. I tasted a little blood from where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

"Sorry, Dad," I said. I thought that was just what I was supposed to say. I looked at him again. His face was the stuff of nightmares. I felt myself pee in my underpants a tiny little bit. My dad was the scariest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

"Goddammit, John, what'd I just fuckin' get done wastin' my breath with tellin' you? Dammit', Johnnyboy, don't you ever listen' to what I'm tellin' you? Your momma can't tell you this stuff. She can't tell you how to be a man! John, listen! Quit your cryin', boy! Men don't cry. I told you to be a man, and you best do it! Be a man like me! Grow up, John," he said. I was shaking and crying.

Dad smacked me again, and good. Even better than the last. I knew it'd be a good bruise by tomorrow morning. It'd be something to brag about to Pete and Andy tomorrow at school. Except, I'd tell the boys that I got it from a homeless man who tried to take my Ice Cream Dime. It'll be a real good story. I might even say there was two guys. And maybe one of them had a switchblade on them! Yeah, yeah, that'll make a real good story to tell them tomorrow.

I didn't know how to be a man. I wanted to be a man, but I just didn't know how. I wished Momma could tell me. She'd tell me good, if she knew exactly how to do it. She would tell it to me gently, too. Maybe Dad can teach her, then she can teach me.

I went to sleep still tasting blood and wishing Mom could tell me how to grow up and be a good man like Dad. When I woke up, there was a small blood stain at about mouth-level on my white pillow case; I flipped over the pillow so Momma wouldn't see it. I'd get spanked if she saw it, and I didn't want to get spanked. That wasn't something that usually left a mark and I didn't really want to drop my pants to show the guys my backside, anyways.

It was the morning, so I had to pee. But after I did that, I started down the steps. When I got downstairs for my cereal, Dad was already gone for work.

"Hi, Momma," I said tiredly as I sat at the table with my filled bowl. She glanced over at me for a second, then went back to washing the dishes from the night before. Her eyes looked sleepy. She looked sleepy.

It was quiet except for some clinking from her and from me. But then Momma spoke. She said, "John, you should be more like your father." Her voice was so loving and calm when she spoke about Dad. I knew that she really loved Dad, and I hoped that I'd get to marry a sweet, good girl like Lucy McOrrille. I was in love with Lucy McOrrille; I didn't have to worry about finding a nice girl, because I'd already found one. All there was left to do, was tell her that I liked her.

"Your father is a . . . good man, and you need to listen to what he says. He knows what he's talkin' about when he talks about you bein' a man and growing up. Just listen to the man, John, please? . . . And don't be giving him anymore lip, either, John. You know you aren't supposed to. You know how much he hates gettin' lip from you. Or from anyone, really. . . Just listen to your father more, John," she said. I was looking at her the whole time through her entire speech.

I nodded my head.

"Okay, Momma, I'll listen. . . Hey, did you see that dog out there yesterday?! It was yellow! Didja see it, Momma? I'd really like . . . "

I told Mom how much I'd like a dog someday. She just kept nodding and saying things like "Uh huh" and "Oh, yeah" and "That's great, John." I didn't know how closely she was listening. Maybe she should take a page out of Dad's book and start listening better. I'd never suggest that to her, though. There was a lot of stuff I'd never in a million years suggest to my parents.

She said it was almost time for school. I hurried upstairs and slipped on my jeans that I'd worn yesterday and a T-shirt I'd found under my bed. After I finished tying my sneakers, I ran out the door. I had to run. If I didn't, I'd be late. And if I was late, I'd get a note home. Notes home weren't good. Especially when they went to my home.

I made it in class just before the bell rang. "Hi, Lucy," I said, just like everyday. She looked at me funny.

The day went on easily enough. I told Andy and Pete about getting in a fight with a couple of homeless guys over my Dime. Their eyes were wide in pure wonder, and I smiled to myself. I showed those homeless guys that I wasn't going to take anything from anyone.

Finally, recess came. I was playing four-square with three other boys. Pete had to go home early because he threw up and Andy had to stay inside and do lines. I didn't usually talk to the boys around me. They were named Mark, Pat, and Neil. I didn't really know them. They didn't play four-square too good, so that made me feel good. I didn't mind them. Neil looked like a weasel, though.

"Nice shiner, man," Pat said. He laughed. The others laughed. I started in on telling them my story.

"Then I gave one of 'em a real nice hook to th - "

"Wait, wait, wait, John. So, you beat up two full-grown men? Yeah, right. I bet yer old man beat ya' for something. I've seen him. My dad talks about your dad. Says he spends all his time at The Mellow Tiger on Plumeria Street. My old man says your old man can barely walk out of that place in a straight line," Pat said, interrupting me, laughing. I shook my head violently.

"Hey! My old man don't go to The Mellow Tiger, man. Shut up," I shouted. I walked away from the four-square game that had already stopped. My old man was a good man and he did his drinking at home; he wouldn't go out to do it. And when he does drink, he just takes a few sips. He can always walk in a straight line. Pat was wrong. The other boys were wrong for nodding and agreeing with him. They were all wrong.

"Hey, Lucy," I said to her as I found myself "accidentally" walking out of the school right next to her the next day. She half-smiled, and it looked nice.

"Uh, hey, John," she said. Lucy looked at me for a moment and burst out in giggles. I saw her eyes raking over my cheek and mouth. I flushed with pride at having battle-wounds. Men have battle-wounds. Men have scars and stuff.

"Did your daddy beat up on you some? Sure looks like it," she cooed. I flushed again - not from pride, but from embarrassment. It was like she'd been peeping in my windows the other day.

I shook my head. Lucy McOrrille wasn't so appealing with how sure she sounded that Dad had made the scab on my lip and the bruise on my cheek.

"No, my dad didn't beat up on me at all. . . I got it from . . . " I went on to tell her about the two homeless guys and stuff. Half-way through my story, she cut me off. It reminded me of Pat from the day before. She was laughing, too.

"Yeah, sure, John. Yeah, sure. . . ," she said as she skipped far away from me. I decided that I didn't love Lucy McOrrille anymore. She was too nosy and she laughed at me and she didn't believe me about the two guys.

I walked the rest of the way home with my head down and my shoulders slumped. The sun was beating down on me and was hot on my neck. My face was red and I was a little sweaty.

"Hey, hey, Johnboy. Comere," I heard Dad call as he heard the door shut. I ran to him. He sounded like he was in a good mood tonight. "How was school?" He looked mildly interested. I just told him about the spelling test I got a "B" on. He smiled at me and patted my head. I didn't tell him about Lucy.

Me and Dad were joking around and having fun and laughing. My sides were splitting and my cheeks were red. He was holding his belly and doubled-over a little he was laughing so much!

"Yeah, Dad. You're about as old as dirt, aren't ya," I said with a laugh. We had been kidding with each other. We had been having fun. It was great until his face became so angry and serious after I said that he was old. I thought he'd know I was joking. I straightened up and looked down.

"Sorry, Dad. I - I was onl - ," I began to say, but I got stopped.

My dad's rough, big, heavy hand laid into my cheek again. I felt the scab on my lip break and I tasted blood again in my mouth.

"Don't gimme any of that goddamn lip, boy! I told you! Don't you remember?!" I knew I wasn't supposed to answer that question. "Anyhow, remember what I else I fuckin' wasted my breath on tellin' you?! I said don't you ever say you're sorry, dammit!" My knees were shaking and they felt like jelly.

"Goddammit, be a man, John! Grow up! Be a fuckin' man like me! Be a man, Johnboy!"

***

I didn't want to slice open the kids throat. I really didn't.

But I wanted something to be proud of. I wanted something to be called a "Hero" for and "Famous."

I wanted something for the Merrill family name. I really didn't want to cut the Chambers-faggot kid's throat. I really didn't.


End file.
